Because She Bled Ink
by Poetoffire
Summary: Before Tutu, two amazingly powerful people became tangled in a far greater war. He, the newest bookkeeper’s apprentice and a secret writer, became Drosselmeyer. She, the bookkeeper’s daughter that hid another life as a Wordpuppeteer, became the Raven.


This would never have happened if he hadn't been a _writer_.

Brynner hadn't struck me as one; he was a nice boy, with short, strawberry-blonde hair and kind brown eyes. All the same I'd investigated him. Found him out. And the time had to come eventually.

It was a humid summer night. My dark cloak flapped around my ankles, threatening to expose the toe-shoes I wore. I liked ballerina footwear because it was silent.

Silence for the deadly. The justice pleased.

I wasn't quite pleased then. I liked Brynner. This would be awkward. Thank goodness for the robe and the Wordpuppeteer powers altering my appearance to conceal that I knew him all too well.

He was awake when I stepped into his room. It was the untidy, messy sort with the light blue sheets for his bed crumpled in a heap in the corner. He sat at a desk, staring into the light from a low-burning candle. There was no quill or parchment in front of him.

Brynner had expected me.

I grinned. He wouldn't come quietly. But that would be fine. The hunt was on. And I hadn't lost yet.

"You can come out of the shadows," he said. I did not remember his voice being so low and hoarse. "I know you've come for me, Ranulf."

I cleared my throat with a swallow, closing my eyes and pulling my strings. My tone slipped from light and feathery into a masculine growl. "I come for all who break the law, Writer Brynner."

"I'm no writer," he turned, slipping out of the chair. His brown eyes were hollow, defeated. "You've got to believe me. The rumors aren't true. I haven't changed a thing in Kinkan."

"Oh, really?" I grinned, looking up. He flinched. They always flinched at the crimson eyes. "On the eve of two days ago, in the northwest corner of the Male Dormitory garden, you altered Freida Americus. The startlingly powerful paragraph was written on a spare sheet of wax paper from clay sculpting, which you burned after using. Its wordsmithing got her romantically involved with you."

His face turned an eerie shade of scarlet in the candlelight. Embarrassment and guilt. "What Freida and I do—you've no business—no business at all—why in the world would I wordsmith her—what do you take me for?"

"A writer," I said, fighting to keep my voice level when I could almost taste the ink and blood. So close.

"I'll never," he shook his head. "Even if I was a writer, I…"

"_**SIT!**_" I barked.

He lowered himself into the chair, face morphing into a blank expression. I mentally plucked another string and his hand reached into the drawer, removing a scroll, ink well, and quill.

"What are you doing?" he snarled. I stared, blinking once, and his right hand grasped the quill, dipping it in ink. "You can't, it's not true, Ranulf can't be…a Wordpuppeteer…"

"_**Write,**_" I said, flicking a finger and raising yet another thread. For a second he resisted. But there's only so much a writer could do against me. His hand flew over the parchment.

"Your story will detail how your body was found, sitting in your chair, hunched over this very desk," I continued. Tears slipped down his face as I moved his hand to form the letters. "It goes on to include how Freida Americus, your little influenced girlfriend, will confess to having done the deed. However, when they examine her, they will find the Raven-claw mark on her shoulder. The crime will be detailed as that of Ranulf and she goes unpunished."

"You're a monster," he said, struggling against my power.

"That may be," I shrugged. "But I am killing monsters. You are a writer and you deserve to die."

He grinned, finishing the tale. I let his hand hang limp. "It won't work. You forgot to make me write about my death."

I laughed. "Not forgot. I like doing this part myself."

He gulped. I continued.

"You're about to witness a triumph against everything that separates Wordsmiths and Wordpuppeteers," I stepped forward. "You're aware that the blood flowing through your veins is closely linked with your writing, yes?"

He began to scoot away. I snapped a couple of his strings and Brynner froze up. "Yeah," he breathed.

"A normal human's sweat contains a little bit of blood," I said, removing a dagger from my cloak. "In Wordsmiths, it's almost half made up of the stuff. Even the tiniest drop of your sweat falling onto the page, when you will it, brings a story to life."

"Interesting to know," he rolled his eyes.

I fingered the sharp blade. His eyes roved up and down it, trying to see if I was serious. He would know in time. "You do not want to will this story to life. It requires…more."

I mentally plucked a string, manipulated his lifeline. His hand flew to the table, resting on the parchment.

"You will not move," I said, voice slow and hypnotic. "You will not even blink. I will force these words into existence. And at the same time, I will make them true by taking your life away."

**--**

"Dale, dearest, bad news," the dark, raspy voice I knew all too well penetrated the room. I looked up from toweling off the dishes.

"Yes, father?"

He wore his bookkeeper cloak, watery black eyes and stringy gray hair barely peeking out of the hood. Father was not handsome. His job ages unnaturally and it left him a little worse for the wear.

"Brynner's not only dead, he's a writer," Father hung his head. He hung his brown robe in the peg on the kitchen doorframe. "A shame. It's quite a shame most of my apprentices—"

I stood up, walking over to him and putting my hands on his shoulders. His gnarled ones, possessing more claws than fingers, softly stroked mine as I murmured, "Now, now, father. There is always another page. Was it Ranulf?"

He nodded. "Thank goodness for that man. He's saved th'Spinners so much face and effort…"

I allowed myself a small smirk. "Do you know who he is?"

"You've asked me a dozen times, child," he slunk into a chair at the wobbly table. I went back to drying dishes. "No. No one i' the Spinners does. Why are you so curious about him?"

I began a beautiful façade, swooning over the wash basin. "Father, I hope to marry him one day."

"You've said, you've said," he laughed, a wheezy sort of chuckle. "He'll make a fine husband."

I gingerly put a glass away. "Any more clues on the case so far?"

"We think he might be a Wordpuppeteer," Father leaned back in his chair. "Though how the man kills writers with it is beyond me. You're becoming infamous among the Spinners, dearest. I say we've got to find him, my daughter's i'love with Ranulf, and they all send my cheers and blessings for you!"

I nodded halfheartedly. This was bad news. I kept up the act of infatuation with Father to learn about the efforts to discover my identity, but the less the Spinners knew about my association with Ranulf, the better.

"I have a new apprentice secured," he closed his eyes. "Odd type, he 's. You might like him, though."

"Maybe," I smiled, trying to make it genuine. "Maybe."

**--**

Maybe turned out to be a "no".

I answered the door that evening to find a tall, lithe boy draped in probably what was the most ridiculous cloak I'd ever seen. It had a billion shards of color to it. Was that a duck I saw patterned on the fabric?

"Hello," he bowed deeply, smiling like a shark. I didn't like that grin. There was something _wrong_ lurking underneath it.

The boy had slightly curled white hair that he'd pulled into a short ponytail. I looked at his face and beyond the eerie smirk he was what one might call handsome. Except…

His eyes. They were liquid caramel, and something shone from within them. But that wasn't the oddest part.

They had _rings_.

Little, darker areas looped around his irises. I raised an eyebrow. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought the guy a Wordpuppeteer. But he didn't emulate that sense of control.

Instead, he looked a little silly and ditsy, standing in the doorway, predator smile fixed on me. "I'm the new apprentice," he said. "Drosselmeyer. You can call me Ross if you're willing."

"I'm not," I rolled my eyes. "Bookkeeper's daughter. Name's Dale. I don't like you—stay out of my way."

He laughed. It sent shivers down my spine. "Feisty, eh? No wonder Brynner was found dead last night, having _you_ to cope with. Dale. Isn't that supposed to be a boy's name?"

"No," I said coldly. For some reason, I didn't have the heart to start up my normal kindness act, buttering up the pages to make sure. He was just too plain creepy. "It works for either."

He shrugged. "Good to know, madam Dale. Would you be so kind as to invite me inside?"

I gritted my teeth together. Best not make him too suspicious. "Whatever. I was about to have dinner."

I led him into the kitchen, sat him down, and put the noodles I'd cooked up in front of him. I lowered myself into the chair across from him. Drosselmeyer didn't even touch his food.

After the longest time, he spoke. "Ranulf going to come for me now that I took this job?"

Dangit. The exact wrong subject. I tried to appear natural. "Search me. Bookkeeper business."

He grinned. I stared at the surface of the darkwood table.

"The Spinners," Drosselmeyer said.

"Oh," I bit my lip. Everyone knew of the resident murderer, Ranulf. Not everyone knew what the bookkeeper did. "You know."

He nodded. "I took the apprenticeship because of it. I'm interested in…Wordpuppeteers and Wordsmiths."

"If Father finds out you're either it's the axe," I said, keeping my eyes glued to the table.

"Who said I was either?" Drosselmeyer shrugged. "Just interested, madam, that's all. Hardly a crime. I should like to meet Ranulf."

Did he have to bring it up again? I resorted to playing it cool. "I, as with anyone in this household, the store, and the organization of the Spinners, do not know who Ranulf is," my voice was low, treacherous. "In fact, that scum can go straight to—I do not think kindly of him."

He nodded. "Good. Nice to meet you, madam Dale. I expect I'll be seeing a lot of you?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm not too involved in the Spinners, but I help with the bookshop and keep an eye out on things."

"You're a Wordpuppeteer," he said.

I blinked once. The statement startled me. He couldn't…how could he know that soon…?

"I can feel people's powers out," Drosselmeyer started attacking his noodles. "And you're radiating that very vibe, madam."

Damnit. This would be hard to talk my way out of. "Father is aware that I have the powers," I said. A half-lie. He'd known from my birth I'd inherited a little, but had no clue how much and that I was using them as Ranulf. "But they are currently dormant inside me. I have never used them. I do not intend to. Good day, Mr. Drosselmeyer. I will be seeing more of you."

I stood up.

He grinned and I wanted to kill him before it was necessary. "It's Ross," he said in his lazy, meandering voice that took nothing seriously. "And I wish you a good day, too, madam."

I shrugged. It wouldn't be. Now that I knew of his personality, Drosselmeyer, or "Ross" as he ridiculously demanded he be called, was way too suspicious for comfort. How could I have a good day if I was following him around for the remainder of it?


End file.
